


in another life

by AceQueenKing



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, NYTW Canon, Older Man/Younger Woman, Penis In Vagina Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: His eyes drift to her; she feels them, staring at her as she moves through mama’s fields, bringing the fruits and flowers of the vine to blossom. The honeysuckle’s always her favorite, and maybe his too; he’s still staring. She gathers her courage, smiles at him from a distance; he nods at her.Her heart thundering in her chest, she slowly moves her skirt up a bit while he watches.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 176
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	in another life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joy_shines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joy_shines/gifts).



The screen door at mama’s slams, and she doesn’t bother to look up; lots of people come to see mama, and then out walks Mr. Hades. Persephone looks at him with longing for a long moment, then looks away. It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself, though his eyes stay on her as she walks through the magnolias. He’s just one of many who might drift out the back door, have a little smoke.

She doesn’t think he’s come for her, though she wishes he would. Hades is her favorite of mama’s guests. He’s been coming around for years, mind; one of the five childhood friends mama always clings to, her aunties and uncles who might not be _blood_ but are definitively so close to her mother as to be just as good as blood. Now they’ve had their ups and downs, but Persephone reckons nothing would split them up, not for good. He’s always been sort of the odd one out: everyone else is a suit-and-tie sort, real go-getters, masters of the universe, but Hades, he’s always Mr. black-jeans and big buckles, and well, Persephone, she likes the odd ones out.

It’s why she grows all the plants mama calls interlopers: dandelions, dead nettle, curly dock. Mama never understands why she doesn’t pull the weeds in her garden; truth is, Persephone likes the weeds. If they’re strong enough to put down roots even if Persephone doesn’t sow them, well, who is she to tell them not to grow? Just because they don’t look the same? That’s silly, she thinks.

Just like judging Hades for looking a little different from mama’s other friends is silly. He’s younger than her mama, if a lot older than her; a little light in as much as Persephone is a little dark. He’s got a fighter’s body, thick and scrappy; a voice, she thinks, that could melt butter.

She watches him out of the corner of her eyes as he leans out on mama’s stoop, his eyes wide and scanning the sky, as if to say _save me from these idiots_. She likes that, too: he always seems like he has all the answers, and Persephone, who has always been criticized as being too curious for her own good, well, she likes that.

His eyes drift to her; she feels them, staring at her as she moves through mama’s fields, bringing the fruits on the vine to blossom and moves on to the flowers. The honeysuckle’s always her favorite, and maybe his too; he’s still staring. She gathers her courage, smiles at him from a distance; he nods at her.

Her heart thundering in her chest, she slowly moves her skirt up a bit while he watches. She flashes him a nice bit of leg; Persephone, she’s a dangerous sort of girl, deep down. Good girl, but _precocious_. She likes to flirt with danger.

Her siblings and cousins don’t mess with her, because Persephone, well, she got daddy’s temperament, deep down. He doesn’t know that though, she thinks. She clips some honeysuckle, goes to check on mama’s orchards clutching them in her fingers and wondering if it wouldn’t be too forward to put one across his ears. She feels his eyes stay on her as she moves through the vines; isn’t til she moves real deep down past the flowers and well and truly into the trees, to where she isn’t even visible from his step, that she hears it: the heavy footfall of his boots as he stalks her down the line.

And then she freezes, because Persephone, well, she flirts with danger, but she hasn’t exactly crossed the line.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is thick and _deep_ and dark. Always was, but it feels deeper somehow, when his attention is turned on her. She drops her flowers, looks up at him. Her face is probably blushing – it feels warm, _but_ it’s hard to tell if it’s the sun, or if it is the attention of him, himself his own sort of sun. Her thoughts are far, far away from the little girl thoughts she used to think, seeing him. 

“Hey yourself,” she says after a moment. Sassy seems safe; if she has an attraction to old know-it-alls, well, maybe he has an attraction to young sass-mouths. He chuckles, and there’s a warmth there, like the brandy she’s snuck from mama’s cabinet when she’s feeling particularly lonely.

“You’re Demeter’s daughter, ain'tcha?” He tugs his glasses down; she sees he has brown eyes, quite nice _deep_ brown eyes. She’d have thought blue, given how he’s so pale, but his eyes are closer to hers in color. He snaps his fingers in one fluid movement that makes her swallow. “Persephone, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice dusky. Ain’t exactly subtle, she thinks, what she wants. He seems of a mood to give it to her, too; he nods, all pleased at that little roughness. His hand reaches out without warning, crosses the line like it’s not even there – touches her cheek.

“Mighty pretty name, Persephone.” He pauses for a long moment, gives her a _long_ look up and down. “Suits you.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but he smiles; he is very pleased, she can tell. She swallows and reaches up, gently touches his free hand. It’s rougher than she might have thought, lots of power buried in those palms. Bigger than hers, twice over.

“And you’re—”

“Hades,” he says, name landing as heavy as a brick on her shoulders. “King Hades, of Hadestown, point of fact.”

As if he needed an introduction.

“You must be busy,” she murmurs, not knowing what else to say; she doesn’t have any qualifications like he does. Persephone, goddess-of-the-vine, like her mother before her –well, that just sounds paltry in comparison. His hand is _still_ on her chin; his thumb very lightly caresses her mouth, just so lightly. She parts her lips, and he makes a funny little noise, indescribable, something a bit more vocalized than a gasp but closer to a groan.

She likes it.

“Not that busy.” He sniffs, and she suspects this is a bit of a lie: he’s a man with a lot of gossip about him, and most of it is about how hard he toils, down in those mines _. Plenty of riches holds mister Hades, but he doesn’t have anyone who he can share it with_. “Not like you. You look…mighty busy.”

“Harvest time soon,” she says; he nods.

“I’ll bet.” His hand trails down to her shoulder, tilts his head. She wonders what he’s thinking about, but he tells her seconds later: “This your first harvest, miss Persephone?”

She swallows. He wants to know her age, and she can only think of a few reasons for that: seeing if he’s too old for her, maybe, or if she’s of childbearing age. Persephone’s breasts have never quite come in big, like mama’s; she’s bountiful, but not in the same ways. Can see how he might think her younger than she really is.

“This’ll be my seventh, as far as working it goes. And please just – just Persephone.”

“Persephone,” he says, and she loves how he says it, like she’s not mama’s little daughter but her own woman, and she can’t help imagining how he might say it against her ear. “Seventh already?” He’s doing the math, smiles. “An expert now, then.” And more importantly, an adult.

“Not according to my mother,” she says, then wishes she hadn’t; he turns his attention toward the house for a moment, like he’s waiting for mama to come out and see them and stop him from sweeping her off her feet or stop her from pulling him into the mulberries. But mama doesn’t come.

“You got time to sit and chat?” He asks with a smile, and ain’t there nothing but his slick, white shark teeth glaring back at her.

“Yes,” she says. She would say it even if she didn’t.

His hand climbs down her back, rests at the base of her hips like it just belongs there. He’s so much bigger, she thinks; his hand feels like it spans half her hips, and Persephone has some hips, some hips indeed. “Come on,” he drawls; “I know there’s a good shady spot around here. Let’s sit a spell.”

Her heart all but threatens to explode out of her chest as he gently steers her toward a path. Part of her notices it’s a bit funny, him leading her around her own backyard, and then out past it into the forest beyond, but she’s too excited to really notice that he’s taking her by herself into the forest. Mama would say to be careful, but Persephone thinks she is: she can handle herself here. Ain’t nothing in this forest that isn’t her element, after all, and she is an immortal goddess with all the rights accorded to such, even if she is just a tiny young thing in comparison to him.

“So what is it you do for fun, Persephone?” He says, in a laconic drawl that suggests he’s being _very_ dedicated to looking so casual. His hand tightens, slightly, on her hip; she leans into it.

“Whatever I want.” She looks up at him and sees the smile that blossoms over his face; it’s not a _nice_ smile exactly, but it’s the same shark-tooth grin that he gets whenever he’s got a good hand in the games he and mama’s other “siblings” play at every reunion. First memory she has of hearing his voice is him chuckling, laying out a nice flush while daddy and the others groaned – that was back when daddy still lived at home, so must have been damn long ago, ‘fore daddy did mama dirty and ran off with that musician Mnemosyne. He’d remained neutral in that spat, she remembered and stayed away, stayed away a good long while; never came around again til after daddy finally settled-ish with Sister Hera and by then Persephone had been half-grown. But maybe it’s a good thing, that he ain’t seen her grow up, that he missed her awkward gangly stage.

“That so?” He says, after a long moment where she suspects both of them have been in their heads a bit too much, thinking about things that aren’t quite so flippant as _fun_. He taps her hip with his hand, almost but not quite hitting her bottom, and she has to look away, the touch too exciting. “Seems like you like to get into some trouble that way.”

“I don’t mind a little trouble,” she says, ignoring the fact that he is not a little trouble. He is _big_ trouble. He is trouble from tooth to tail; danger as a middle name sort of trouble. “What do you like to do? Big King must have all kinds of hobbies.”

He gives her a little smile, this one more austere, more painted. Likes the praise, she thinks, but maybe not as much as her daddy would have. “Being King keeps me busy. New arrivals all the time. Hard to find time for …pleasurable pursuits.”

She stumbles over a twig that snaps under her heel. Might as well be her belly snapping for how much _pleasurable pursuits_ makes her feel a warmth deep down, deep down inside, in a spot she’s never quite known before. He’s talking about – well, she knows what he’s talking about.

“You alright?” He asks; her stumbling tore his hand away and she misses it. Looking at the immediately outstretched hand, she thinks he misses holding her, too. She takes his hand, breathes deep. Realizes, dimly, that they’re deep in the forest now.

No witnesses.

“I was just trying to trap you,” she murmurs; it’s flirty, and more blatantly so, but he seems to take it well; she lets a vine from one of the trees cling to his arm for just a half-second, just a half-second of suggestion, and he looks at her with some respect on that big face.

“Well,” he says. “Worse things to be trapped by than a beautiful, clever woman.”

His hand returns to curl around her hips while he’s saying this, and she can’t think of a response but one isn’t necessary; he’s moving them again, faster now, toward some destination deep inside the woods that only he knows. It’s odd, she thinks, that he knows these woods so well.

“Where are we…?”

“Clearing up ahead,” he says, brusque; he seems not-quite-nervous but hurried, like he wants to get to this point and get it over with. She wonders for half a second if it’s her company he’s tiring of, but then his hand clamps rougher on her side and he all but pulls her into a grove of trees and then into a space that’s just – a clearing.

A clearing with a ring of trees without leaves; this isn’t part of her mama’s power, her mama’s domain, even if it’s surrounded by it on all sides. There’s grass, but it’s patchy, like it’s struggling to grow despite the sun bright above. She turns back to him. “What is…?”

“This clearing’s a bit closer to home for me,” he says, and she supposes that explains the _what_ if not the _why_. She leaves her lips open, the wordless remainder of a question on her lips, but she cannot speak it, for he is striding over to her, putting his hands in her, and rendering her speechless. “Some spots in the world, it’s just that way. That’s all it is.” He squeezes both her hands. “Don’t be frightened.”

“Ain’t frightened,” she says; she is, but she will never admit that. Like her daddy before her, Persephone’s a bit of a hothead, and she’ll never admit being scared, only babies get scared and Persephone, well, she’s not a baby. Not at all. She juts out her lip to prove her point, only half-aware of how young it makes her look.

“You’re very brave,” he says, that little private smile still on his face. She has a clever retort at the ready, but it dies in her throat when he falls down onto his knees, still holding her hands. She freezes, not sure what the protocol is for this moment. He drops her hands to take off his hat, slides it off his head and holds it as if unsure just what to do. He licks his lips in a moment that seems to last forever, _is_ seared into her memory forever.

And then he looks up at her over those sunglasses, and says, softly. “Persephone.” He utters her name like a prayer, holy in ways no one else has ever referred to her. His back goes ramrod straight, and the hand holding his hat in his hands shakes. “Persephone.”

“Yes?” She can barely whisper, the moment so charged with some strange energy that she is afraid to ruin it. “What is it--?”

“I’m…” He chuckles, a sort of snide sounding little laugh but attractive in its own way. “Well, I have a bit of a confession.”

“And I’m your priestess now?” She says, raising an eyebrow.

“Something like that.” He nods once, twice, then swallows. “’Fraid I brought you here with intentions.”

Her heart goes thundering through her chest as Hades changes subtext to text; he smooths his hands over his hat, clears his throat. “Truth is, Persephone, I ain’t the sort who really _enjoys_ these old get togethers, but for the –” He coughs. “Well, you’re a very bright little thing. You _shine_.”

She watches as he swallows again, nods again; he seems to have gathered his courage. He opens his mouth to speak. “I’ve been…” He reaches out a hand, then withdraws it, smashing it back into the hat as if it hurt to hold it outwards. He shakes his head. “That is, I think…” He fades out. A second later, he starts again: “I know I am an older man. I can’t change that. I’ve watched you a good long time, and boys your age – well, they don’t appreciate a goddess like yourself and you are every damn inch a _goddess_.” A nervous smile, all shark-mouthed. Not nice, but _nice_ enough for her tastes. “I’d treat you right, if you’d be of a mind to go with me. The choice is yours, mind, I’ve…never been like –” He catches himself, stops, but she knows what he was going to say.

“Like my father.”

“Quite so.” He squeezes the hat, which crumples in his hand. He looks up to her. “I’d _worship_ ya,” he drawls, and the look over his glasses suggests he really would. “Keep you in diamonds and pearls if that’s your fancy. You’d want for _nothing_.”

She looks at him, hat in his hand. She doesn’t care much about diamonds and pearls. But she likes his smile, the way he all but quivers looking at her. There’s power in that, and Persephone’s not old enough yet to know that this is just the beginning of her power but she loves the hint of it, the wordless sour-sweet taste of his name in her mouth. Tart, she thinks; he is tart. She looks at him and thinks: _oh, you’re trouble indeed._

But boy does trouble sound _good_ when it’s given in that deep rumble.

“Well?” He asks. “You take pity on a man’s heart?” She sees the tension in him, in the hat almost crushed between his fingers. He wants her to say yes, _badly_.

She doesn’t answer him in words, which don’t feel holy enough. She bends down, delicately brushes a bit of pollen off his shoulder, then touches his throat. It swallows against her hand, the scratch-itch of his beard contrasting with the sweat-slickness of his skin.

She studies him for half a second. He doesn’t look away. She leans forward, and then she kisses him.

 _That_ he reacts to, almost instantaneously; she doesn’t really have much experience in this department, nothing but a few quick stolen fumbles with Eris when she’s of a mind to cause trouble, but he – he knows what he is doing. His arms go around her hips, his lips take charge of the kiss, slowly pressing into her and then retreating – no pressure on forcing his tongue in, like Eris used to insist on doing. His kisses are feather light but somehow heavy all the same; his hands move in ways that make her shiver and shake, and when she draws back for breath, he gives her a heavy look that no one has ever given her before.

“You’re a sweet-tasting thing,” he rumbles, and then he grabs her back, rubs her up against him. His tongue very gently parts her mouth and she wraps her arms around his head, trying to catch up with what is actually happening: _he’s kissing me_. She opens her eyes for half a second but it’s too much, to see him with his face like that, eyes closed and knit in concentration. It’s a handsome look, but it makes her feel like a holy relic. She closes hers, guilty, and slowly lets him work his love into her skin. She wonders how long he’s felt like this, if every nod and smile made over the last few years has been torture. Did he touch himself at night, wondering about her, like she did to the thought of him? Her hand grazes his belt and he jumps back a bit, startled, and she thinks she’s done something wrong until he shoots her a heady smile and changes the angle of his kisses: moves his lips to her neck, her shoulder.

She stumbles with trying to play with it; taking off someone else’s belt isn’t easy, and she doesn’t quite manage to unhook it before he pulls her hand away. He stops the kisses, holds her slow and reverent.

“Can I lay you in the dirt, Persephone?” He asks, voice low and smooth as silk. “Treat you right nice.”

She swallows and nods, not sure if he means simply to make out or to go beyond it. She lays herself down, swallows her nerves and tries to hide them in what she thinks is a mighty coquettish stare. “Come and get me,” she says, and he does.

His body is _heavy_ , on top of her; heavy and suddenly she is so much more aware of it, not only the heft of his body but the vitality; the blood that moves through it, the breath that course through his lips. He chuckles and bites at her lip, hot and heavy; his hands grab hers, hold them down to the ground. His hips grind into her in a way that makes her give half-throaty moans, especially after he moves on to devoting himself to sucking and biting at her ear. He shifts off of her a bit, and she whines in the parting.

“Not going anywhere,” he whispers, and then his hand is at her dress. He pauses for a second before undoing it, but she doesn’t offer any resistance as he slowly works his hand down each button of her cotton dress, homespun mama stayed up late spinning for her in her favorite color, the light green of new grass. He undoes it past her breasts, and his hands stray there, slowly moving over each one. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and she swallows. He gives her a reassuring caress, but he isn’t deterred long from his mission; he undoes every single button until her dress is only on by the caps of her sleeves; when she inches up a tiny bit to shrug them off, he doesn’t stop her, and only a tiny pair of cotton panties lies between her being totally nude and his appraising eye-sight.

“Gorgeous,” he says; he’s more reverent at the touches now; he kisses at her shoulder with feather-sweet kisses, her sternum. She isn’t sure what to do, so she just runs her hand through his hair, and he seems to like that well enough. His mouth moves down slowly but purposefully over one of her nipples; he looks up at her as he kisses it, and the feeling she gets Is indescribable: there’s heat at the very core of her, heat that feels like it could power a whole furnace. It leaks out of her, heavy and hot, and heavier still when his lips close around her nipple, suckling her.

“Ah!” She cries out, a little loud; they’re surely so far from the house that mama won’t hear this. He doesn’t stop suckling her, only adjusts his body a little bit so he’s resting more on top of her, so his one hand can be free to tweak at her other nipple.

It’s not a feeling she’s felt before; nerve endings she didn’t even believe she had all light up, hot fire-light, and all she can do is cling to his head as he makes her want something she doesn’t quite have words for. He alternates after a minute of agonizing pleasure, dipping his head over to her other breast and giving it the same treatment; the one he left behind stiffens in the breeze, already wanting his touch again. She paws for his free hand - it's gone astray, now that he switched, damnable old man! She places it back where it belongs on her breast; he chuckles into her breast before suckling it again. “You like that, huh?” he murmurs into her skin.

“Yes,” she says; she has never been shy about saying what she wants. He bows his head, gets to work, and she loses time as he slowly renders her boneless, playing with one breast, then the other, over and over again.

And then, without warning, it’s over. He shifts away without warning, leaving her only a goodbye kiss in parting, and then he moves down her belly, pressing kisses into her navel, and then – lower still.

He pokes one finger against her panties, and she startles, vulnerable, but he doesn’t stop, slowly running his hand up and down her panties, which are quite wet and she can’t imagine that was from her but she knows it must be.

“Can I…” he starts to say, but she cuts him off with a mewled out _please_ and he chuckles. Slowly, reverently, he pulls the little cotton square down and off, tucking it in his pocket. “Just so it doesn’t get dirty,” he says, and she isn’t even aware enough to say anything, because then his vision is just starin’ down her front doors, so to speak, and she isn’t sure if the look on his face is good or bad or _what_ , because the guy just looks stunned.

“Well,” he says. “Look at your flower, goddess.” And then he dives between her legs, his mouth suddenly hot against her slit, and she whines as he all but devours her, his tongue probing suddenly everywhere at once. She had some sort of come-back on her lips – _flower, really?_ – but she can’t get it out, not with him scrambling to get in, and she feels like she _should_ probably be embarrassed she’s out here with a man older than her own daddy, down lapping at her cunt like a dog after a bone, but she can’t find it in herself to be: she grabs at her breasts, chasing her own pleasure. She’s moaning like a whore and she hopes mama doesn’t hear it.

He doesn’t seem to mind her noise. His eyes glance up to hers, and he groans something fierce as he laps at the pearl at the apex of her cunt; she’s touched herself there but not like this, not like this at all, and it’s hard to take with him lapping at it, and then he sucks inward and she can’t do anything but sob.

“You taste,” he moans into her, “so good.” He darts away for a moment, tongue skirting lower, to a part of her that hasn’t, as of yet, been broached; she jumps when she feels his tongue move along her opening. He backs off, murmurs tender words of understanding against her thigh, then nips it with his teeth to undercut the sweetness.

And then he goes back to her cunt, and she feels indescribable; his hands tighten on her thighs and she loses herself in pressure and cessation, in his lips and his fingers and tongue. A heat builds up in between her, some sort of instinctual heat, so strong she has to put her fingertips into the ground to discharge it. Wild seeds fall out of her hands and burst into bloom around them, her powers come to bear. He seems to be oblivious to anything that isn’t between her legs, and she feels so, so heavy in his hands. He grips her ass and presses _hard_ against her cunt; she cries out.

“Fuck me,” she pants; it’s forward and she’s never done it, but she wants him, wants him to stuff something between her legs to make her feel less of an ache deep down inside; she needs more, more than his soft hands at her thighs and his tongue between her legs, not that that isn’t quite-nice-indeed. “Please,” she begs with a sob; he doesn’t answer, sucking on her clit so hard she sees stars, and her legs are trembling, and she needs him.

He backs off, looks up from her slit with what can only rightly be called bedroom eyes. He doesn’t answer with words but he moves his hand in between her legs, flexing one finger against her opening and then without warning sliding all the way down in her. A tree seedling bursts into ready bloom in front of her, she ignores it for the sake of watching his face, rapt with wonder. 

She bites her lip; his finger is _big_ , and he’s gentle but it still feels a little weird, feeling him move it around inside of her. “Tight little thing,” he murmurs. “You _are_.”

“Not a bad thing, is it?” She’s heard her brothers crow about liking that, girls who are tight. He smiles, shakes his head.

“No, not bad. Just—” he clears his throat. “You sure this is what you want? Who you want?”

She shoots him a look and he just chuckles. “I do what I want,” she says, bold. “And _who_ I want.”

“Alright.” He smiles. “So long as you’re sure. Didn’t think we’d—” he coughs again, a soft stain of some sort of embarrassment clear on his cheeks. “Well. You ever…” He sits back on his haunches undoes his tie, and she realizes with some embarrassment that he still has all his clothes on. “This your first…?”  
  
She stares at him, trying to decide a good answer. _Yes_ is the honest truth but she doesn’t want him to think her some innocent little doll; _no_ ain’t honest but it seems just as likely to turn him off as turn him on.

“I don’t care,” he purrs. “Just want to make sure I take my time if –if you need it.”

“Some time may be warranted,” she says, not a direct yes, but good enough; he smiles and moves toward her, kisses her mouth slow and sweet while his finger continues to probe down below. She tugs on his heavy coat and he shucks it from his shoulders, tosses it to the side. She tries to worm her hand down to his pants but she isn’t quite tall enough to reach.

“You wanna touch me, huh?” he asks; sounds pleased in that rumble about it, too. He unbuckles his belt and does an almost shimmy to escape his pants, all but kicking them down to his boots and shucking all three at once. She barely has time to even look at the fine cut of his legs and what lies between; he almost immediately guides her hand onto his cock. She hasn’t seen one of these before; it’s different from what she might of thought. He’s hard, but the skin feels velvet soft and warm. He’s almost slick to the touch, gentle, and he guides her hand up and down in little motions over it. “Like that.”

“Hm,” she says, soft, and he maneuvers himself into kissing her as she rubs her hand up and down it; she isn’t sure she’s doing it right but he seems to like it; he gives her cute little half groans. “Just like that, lover, just like that,” he murmurs, and the new nickname makes her cheeks flame fire-hot.

“It’s a nice one,” she says, not that she really has much to compare it to, and he laughs soft in her ear. He’s really – it feels almost like it’s pulsing between her hands, like she’s holding a lot of his power tight in her palms. “Real nice.”

“Well, right glad you approve.” He breaks the kisses, moves slowly between her legs. “Seeing as it’s the first one going in ya and all.” She lets the comment go unchallenged, too arrested by the smile between his eyes and then the hot poke of something against her cunt; he glides it there, back and forth for a long while.

“Think you’re supposed to put it in,” she drawls, and he raises his eyebrows.

“Man might want to savor the moment. Isn’t often I’m taking a virgin,” he quips. She gives him a _look_ that she hopes convey _hurry up_ but evidently means _slow the fuck down_ , because he looks down at her and backs off; thumbs his fingers over his buttons and flicks his pretty shirt off, too. No homespun for him; that’s fine linen, there.

“Should be done right,” he murmurs. “Your first. Skin to skin.” He moves her legs far apart, then farther, and when she gives him a little bit of protest he just shakes his head a bit. “Patience.”

Then he moves his hands, aligning himself, and she sucks in a breath; the reality of the situation – _she is going to fuck him_ – comes through the haze. He grabs both her hands, folds his palms to her palms in a godly embrace.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Relax. Tell me if it hurts.”

It _does_ hurt. His cock is a _lot_ bigger than his finger, and she sucks in a harsh breath as he pushes it further in. Still, she won’t say anything; his face widens, a look that is near tender upon it. It’s a strange look on him; she doesn’t think he is a man of much tenderness.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then he leans in above her, his lips on hers; it’s a passionate kiss, his, and she leans into it, drops his hands to hold his back as he presses all the way in. “Oh,” he says, a soft little groan that radiates out of him. He doesn’t move again after burying himself deep, spending more time on kissing her, tenderly stroking her chin. The look in his eyes is warm and surprisingly sweet.

“Feel good?” She says and he just chuckles, kisses at her neck.

“ _You’re_ good,” he moans; his finger curlicues in her hair. “You okay?”

“Just fine,” she says; the pain is fading now, and it helps that he isn’t moving much. It’s not a bad thing, having him in her; he fits, and he fits mighty nice, helps to sooth a little bit of that ache deep down. “You feel just fine.”

He pulls back, grabs her hand, puts it between her legs, lets her feel him between her legs, that cock all but spearing her. “Look at that,” he says, soft; she moves her hips and he chuckles, moves in and out while her hand still holds it.

“Look at that,” she murmurs. He grunts and bends back down, kisses her soft and sweet as he moves and then not-so-soft and not-so-sweet; there’s a heaviness to him she thinks. A strange sort of heaviness, pressing down on her, but not unwanted.

“Oh, lover,” he moans; his hand finds and she feels his power drifting through her as he moves; slick and thick as oil, his power. She tries to call hers to answer back; she misses. Her power leaks out around them, seeds spilling out into the ground, blossoming. The seedlings getting taller now; might shade them by the time this is done. 

He chuckles; he moves his hips in her, the movement heavy; for someone who doesn’t often take women, according to him himself, he seems of being able to find the spot inside her that feels awful nice. There’s a feeling blossoming inside her now, some warmth at the base of her spine. “You makin’ things grow on me?”

His words are breathy, panting; she wraps her arms around him as he surges within her, his hands lightly holding her throat.

“Maybe –” she moans into his shoulder, heavy shoulder, muscular; he’s worked hard, this man, her man. Yes, he’s hers now; she’s his woman, and he’s her man. Feels right, she decides; natural. “Maybe it’s you,” she says, with a breathy little smile.

“No,” he says, soft. He presses his palm to her, and a murder of crows circles over them, wild birds cawing in a terrible flurry that’s a subtle display of his power but none the less, potent. “ _That_ ’s me.”

She stares up at those birds for a long while, looks at the murder flying about while he strains himself within her. She swallows; she's always known what he was the god of, but seeing it in person, that death-head crow flyin' all around, well - she'll get used to it. She runs her hands up his arms and he shoots her a lovely look, bending in for a kiss while he's moving between her legs. Moving slow and gentle, she thinks, but it's good, it's good now; there's a warmth in her that's all him, all made in the friction of his cock moving through her. He goes to holding himself up with one hand so he can kiss her better, his hand lingering on her throat, power flowing out of it like wine. She grabs it and pours her own back into it; doesn't miss, this time.

He moans as her power flows through him: not cool and oily like his but hot like lightning, full of verdant life. He looks at her, awestruck, and then he moves them both, switches their positions, rolling her over until she’s on top of him; his face is red with effort, but he keeps dipping into her. She groans, moving her hips rhythmically to match his pace, which is furious indeed.

“Oh,” she moans; she’s close to having an orgasm, she thinks, the feeling close to what she has with her hands now; the heat within her is a roaring fire now, all her nerves enflamed and every bit of her power potent; she feels the vines crawling around the patchy little meadow, the plants bursting with fruit that his crows all too quickly devour. Life and death, she thinks; they're good together.

His hand moves between her legs, and it’s hard to think when he does that, when he’s moving inside her and his thumb is moving over the apex between her thighs. She gasps, a ragged little thing, and he is so, so pleased with himself; even panting, even tired, that shark-quick grin is there, bright white and powerful.

“You like that?” He murmurs; he thrusts particularly hard and she jumps up, her hands moving over him for purchase. He rises up, kisses her instead of waiting for an answer; and she answers by slamming herself down on his cock, forcing him deeper inside.

“Close, darlin’,” he huffs into her neck; he picks up the pace, his hand going faster between her legs. His thrusts keep hitting that warm spot inside of her, his finger circling her clit, and she is so close too, so close. “You look so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So beautiful.”

“Like a bride?” She huffs; it’s a bold question, there, and perhaps a bit of a crazy one, but Persephone has always been a volatile one and she thinks from the look of his grin he certain is _of a mind_ to agree. 

“ _My_ bride,” he says; it’s not a question, but she answers anyway.

“Yes!” She cries out, and then she can’t say anything but moan like a whore, because he pulls her down on top of him, holds her tight and _fucks_ her, proper fucking, hitting her so hard with his cock she can barely move, can barely do more than to cry out for him, her answer echoing off the trees: _yes, yes, yes!_

“In?” He asks, and she doesn’t understand the question, quite, but she nods and places her hands in his hands: she’s his, now, his wife, his girl. Whatever he wants, she'll give him.

“Wife,” he says, soft. “My wi- _wwife_.” And then he kisses her neck and holds her down on top of him, and she hears the soft gasp at her neck, the vulnerability of him buried against her neck, and she does not mind that she is the one he crushes his vulnerabilities into. He whines into her neck and she presses her hand into his hair. He stays inside her, unmoving, for a long moment, and she realizes that he's come inside of her; it does not feel as different as she might have thought. She is barely aware of it, beyond a bit of wetness in her. 

“You really--?” He asks, sweaty and panting. "You really want-?"

“ _Yes_ ,” she says; he kisses her, right and true, and pulls himself out of her; his finger stays on her cunt through, rubbing at the little nub there until she shivers into his arms.

“Close,” she whimpers; he takes her over the edge moments later. His hands have skill, and she lets him know she appreciates it. _Husband_ , she thinks, staring down at him. It’s a good match, she thinks; mama can’t disapprove of one of her oldest friends, and he certainly seems to care for her, judging by the tenderness on his face as he takes her over, watching her as she shudders, coming undone, slick and wet in his arms.

“Is it too early to say I love you?” She asks; she rolls off to the side of him, heavy-limbed and ready to lie down forever.

“No,” he purrs. “This is – much better than I expected.”

He leans in, kisses her with a searing heat to it, claiming her as his own, she thinks. Let him claim it; she is willing to go. He tastes tart, like wine; he sits up, plucks one of her fruits off a tree she’s grown. He hands it to her, the fruit already ripe. Pomegranate, she thinks; it fits. Tart, like him.

“Since this land belongs to me, anything that grows here’s under my power as well.” He chuffs. “You wanna make it official?”

She does, and she knows what to do, how a marriage between their kind goes. She breaks it open with her thumb, eats six of the juicy sour-sweet pits inside. It passes without incident, and without commentary; a moment too holy for either of them to give clever little bonmots.

They both need a moment to adjust; he spends it fumbling for his clothing, and then wordlessly helping her to dress, redoing every button of her homespun and sealing up her dress with a kiss.

“A nice dress,” he says; she smiles. “Get you some more, some really nice and fine ones. Velvet, taffeta – the whole works, for you.” He gives her his sharpest smile, and holds out his hand.

“Walk with me?” He asks, voice so silky smooth. He caresses her hand, forms a ring made of such silver metal threads so fine that only a god could knit it together. There’s a beautiful diamond in it, bigger than anything she’s ever seen; it's a nice ring. Makes himself the same. She should, she knows, tell her mama where she's going, tell her mama's what's gone and happened, but he wants to walk, well - she's walk with him. Love is too potent a drug; mama, she thinks, will understand. 

“Course,” she says; she feels a different woman now. She grabs his hand, and she follows him as he walks them back to hell itself.


End file.
